"Straight curious, twenty-six, completely inexperienced with men."
The words glow on my laptop screen at 4 a.m., cursor blinking after them like a heartbeat waiting to flatline.
My fingers stumbled across the keys, but I force myself to continue filling in the anonymous profile.
Height. Weight. Physical description. Limits.
The questions feel clinical and devastating at once. I stare at the final field—a text box asking why I'm here—and my fingers hover uselessly.
I need money to save my father's life. This is my first time.
My cursor moves to submit. Fifty-eight hours remain on my father's clock.
I click before courage fails me.
The confirmation loads: Profile received. Under review. You will be notified when bidding opens.
I close the laptop and sit in darkness until dawn bleeds gray through my window.
I don't remember showering or dressing or walking to the subway.
The morning exists only as a blur of motion between my apartment and the Apex Global lobby, my body on autopilot while my mind circles the drain of what I've just done.
"Hale, get your ass in here."
Hargrove's voice hits me the moment I step off the elevator.
The office buzzes with unusual energy—whispered conversations cutting off as I pass.
I reach his door and find him pacing, phone pressed to his ear.
"Yes, I understand the situation is unprecedented," he snaps into the receiver. "I'm handling it now. You'll have a replacement within the hour."
He ends the call and fixes me with a look that hovers somewhere between disgust and disbelief, like he's been forced to swallow something rotten.
"Sit down, Hale. We need to talk about your future at this company."
My stomach drops. "Sir, if this is about my performance lately, I can explain—"
"Your performance is exactly what I want to discuss."
Hargrove settles into his chair with the expression of a man signing his own death warrant.
"The Varkas brothers' executive assistant quit without notice this morning. Left a resignation letter and vanished—family emergency in Europe. The thirty-second floor is in chaos."
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir, but what does this have to do with me?"
"Asher Varkas requested you specifically."
The words come out like he's swallowing glass.
"Your work on the Mercer portfolio impressed him enough that he recommended you for temporary reassignment until they find a permanent replacement."
The room tilts.
"I don't have executive assistant experience. I'm an analyst."
"Which is exactly what I told them."
Hargrove's jaw tightens.
"But Varkas insisted, and when a man who controls forty percent of this company's investment portfolio insists on something, we accommodate him. Report to the thirty-second floor immediately. Try not to embarrass my department."
"Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."
"Just don't give them any reason to send you back damaged goods."
The elevator carries me upward through floors I've never had reason to visit, each number ticking past like a countdown to something I can't name.
By the time the doors open to the thirty-second floor, my pulse has climbed into my throat.
My new desk sits at the intersection of three corridors, positioned like the center point of a triangle formed by glass-walled offices.
Asher reviews documents with surgical focus.
Blaine lounges with his phone, amber eyes finding mine through the transparent barrier and holding there, his lips curving into a smile that makes my stomach flip.
Cole's sandy head bends over a laptop, but even as I watch, he looks up—and something in his expression softens when he sees me.
He lifts one hand in a small wave. The gesture is so unexpected, so human, that I almost forget to breathe.
The first hour passes in orientation blur. I'm studying the calendar system when a shadow falls across my desk.
"You're a fast learner."
Blaine's voice comes from directly behind me, close enough that I feel warmth against my ear.
"Asher said you adapted to his working style in a single session. Impressive for someone from analytics."
I turn, and he doesn't step back.
"I'm just trying to be useful until you find a permanent replacement," I say carefully.
"What if we don't want a replacement?" His mouth curves into a smile that makes my pulse stutter. "What if we want to keep you exactly where you are?"
"Blaine." Asher's voice cuts through like ice water. "Stop terrorizing the new assistant and let him work."
"I'm not terrorizing anyone, Ash. Just welcoming our newest addition to the family." Blaine holds my gaze one beat longer before retreating with a lazy wave. "We'll talk more later, Ethan. Count on it."
I exhale and return to the keyboard, hands trembling.
The morning stretches into afternoon, and I lose myself in the rhythm of schedules and documents and the constant low thrum of anxiety beneath my ribs.
The auction profile waits on a server somewhere, pending review, and every buzz of my phone sends ice water through my veins.
Cole appears at my desk just after one, steaming cup in hand.
"I noticed you didn't take a lunch break."
He sets the coffee beside my monitor, his fingers brushing mine during the transfer with what feels like deliberate intent.
"You should take care of yourself."
"That's very kind of you, Mr. Varkas, but you didn't have to—"
"Cole."
His sea-glass eyes hold mine, warm with warmth he's trying and failing to disguise as professional courtesy.
"Call me Cole. And I wanted to. You looked like you needed it."
"Thank you, Cole." The warmth spreading through my chest has nothing to do with the coffee. "I appreciate you noticing."
"I notice everything about you."
The words come quiet, almost accidental, and color rises to his cheekbones—surprise at his own honesty, maybe embarrassment. He clears his throat.
"I mean... I notice when people are struggling. It's important to me that the people in this office feel supported."
"Do you bring coffee to everyone who struggles?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
Cole's jaw tightens, and for a moment he looks almost frustrated—not at me, but at himself, at some invisible line he's trying not to cross.
"No," he says finally, so quiet I almost miss it. "Just you."
He returns to his office without another word, and I wrap my hands around the cup while
Asher's analytical gaze tracks me through the glass. His expression has gone sharp, calculating—like he's running numbers on something I can't see.
At 4:30, Asher appears at my desk with a folder.
"These need filing before the end of the day. Alpha-numerical, cross-referenced with the digital system. Questions?"
"No, sir. I'll have them completed within the hour."
"Good."
He pauses, steel eyes examining my face with clinical precision.
"Your output has been adequate, but you're operating at sixty percent capacity. Whatever's consuming your reserves, you'll need to find sustainable solutions. Burning out benefits no one—least of all the person you're trying to save."
The words land like a blow. How does he know?
"I understand, Mr. Varkas."
"Asher." His voice softens fractionally. "If you're going to work this closely with us, formality becomes inefficient. Asher, Blaine, Cole. Clear?"
"Clear." I swallow. "Asher."
Something flickers in his frozen gaze—approval, yes, but also a flicker of what might be concern, quickly frozen over.
"Good." He turns back toward his office, then pauses at the threshold. "You have potential, Ethan. Don't waste it on problems that have solutions you haven't considered."
The notification arrives at 4:47 p.m., while I'm still turning his words over in my mind like stones.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, and I pull it out expecting a hospital update.
Instead, the screen displays a message from FirstBid:
Profile approved. Bidding opens in 24 hours.
The coffee turns cold in my hands.
I look up from the screen.
Through the glass walls of three separate offices, Asher, Blaine, and Cole watch me with expressions that make my skin prickle with awareness.
They can't know. There's no possible way.
But as their eyes hold mine across polished floors and transparent barriers, I feel their scrutiny like hands already reaching for skin I haven't yet learned to offer.